Now That's Fuckin' Teamwork!
I return home, find it eminently loathsome, and make some choice remarks on the subject of suburban "life".
Monday, 2004-12-20 | Classic Gin, Family, Journal, Social Studies
The Blackbird touched down at Chicago's Midway airport around 9:00p. A convoy of black H2s driven by nondescript Caucasoid men in their middle 30's delivered me to School for Gifted Youngsters around 10:00p. After a short debriefing session, I was plugged into Cerebro and, with any luck, I'll have pin-pointed Magneto's location by this time tomorrow--hopefully before he's capable to trigger a full-scale war between the MLF that causes the death of Storm and/or Gambit and thus prevents them from warning Phoenix about Starjammer interference through a dream-sending to the Shi'ar empire and thus sets into motion the moment in the distant future when Cable comes into contact with Bishop and warns him to warn himself as a boy to evade himself as grown man from an alternate timestream where he becomes evil.
If I can't manage to take care of that, all timestreams are pretty much fucked.
Anyway, I snagged some wireless internet from the bozos next door (clever enough to be sold a wireless router by some half-wit part-timer at the Best Buy, but not clever enough to put a password on it or firewall their computers) and, at least until they catch on, I'll be broadcasting my pirate signal from my parents guestroom in scenic Lisle, IL.
That having been said, I think I should remind you that there's something hopelessly deleterious about the suburbs--it's amazing that anyone makes it out of here.
The basic premise is that you live comfortably, hoarding possessions, cultivating a libido out of sheer boredom and numbing your mind/body with rich food and soft bedding in anticipation of news-worthy events; Eminem comes out of the closet, George Bush declares war on the East Nile, that sort of thing. It's like Auschwitz as reimagined by Terry Gilliam in his prime (i.e. before he became hopelessly enamored with pathos and kicked comedy to the curb).
The emphasis on carnality--on rich food, soft beds, acquiring new sex-partners--has the effect of making the body a padded cell rather than a cold and bare one. The mind, when caged thus, cannot scrape his tin cup against the iron-hard bars to antagonize his captors and in this way nurture his own bitter antipathy; he can only fling himself against the walls until he gets bored and then, having cultivated an obfuscating apathy, can only resign to sit still, muttering like an idiot, until he wastes completely away.
It's comical, but these soft bodies that they make for themselves hardly seem like prisons at all--they seem more silly than dangerous and are thus all the more dangerous.
Consider that I've only been here for a scant five hours and already I've lapsed into a comicbook conceit (hoping for a cheap laugh and some kind of inspiration), held my mothers' neighbors in contempt for no good reason and written a (halting and bumbling) diatribe about the dangers of carnality.
Hopefully I can make it to some place cold and bare before I turn 18 again.